Among Wolves
by FFcrazy15
Summary: 1996: As war breaks out across wizarding Britain, a man more broken than he lets on is given a perilous mission: infiltrate and destabilize the most dangerous werewolf pack in Europe. To do so, Remus will have to fight his instincts, face an ugly family history, and confront the very man who's made his life a living hell. And even that may not be enough. ("Full and New" ficverse.)
1. Chapter 1: Gomorrah

_**Prologue: Gomorrah**_

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do I profit from this work produced here.

 **Warnings: cursing, violence, parental abuse.**

* * *

 **December, 1995**

The wind blew steadily over the frozen heath, the landscape before his searching eyes a barren wasteland of gray and white, broken here and there by frosted patches of reddish-brown or olive where the snow had not entirely buried the dead grass. The man shivered and pulled the patched closer around his shoulders.

"See anything worth seeing?"

He glanced over his shoulder; his mirror image approached with a wry grin. "Nope. Bloody starving, though."

"Hn. John just went to check the traps. Here's hoping for some fresh rabbit, eh, brother?"

Mavis MacMorris smirked at his elder brother and nodded. A stiff breeze crossed the open moors; both shivered, and Mavis lifted his hands to his face, rubbing and blowing on them. _"Calfacio,"_ he whispered, and let out a soft sigh of relief as a bloom of heat warmed his stiff fingers.

Maverick gave him a sharp look. "You know Alpha hates magic."

"Fuck Alpha. Put me out here on day shift, didn't he? Why couldn't Brushtail do it?"

"You know the Ferals always get the perks. What're you complaining for?"

Mavis muttered something about "blasted wind," and Maverick snorted. "Why are you out here for, anyway?" the younger brother questioned, looking over at him curiously.

Maverick shrugged. "You look half-frozen, kid. Thought you could use a break?"

The younger blinked. "You mean it?"

"Sure. Go inside, get your blood flowing. Look like a corpse, you do." Mavis grinned, thanked his brother and left the crest of the hill, tramping down through the drifted snow and wincing as his nearly numb toes were forced to move again.

Near the bottom of the hill was a small, abandoned stone farmhouse; made all of crumbling stone, the thatched roof had long since collapsed, but thankfully the ceiling of the lower floor, made of rotting wooden beams, was still intact. Mavis blew on his chapped hands again as he pushed the door inside, careful to step lightly for fear of waking the others.

And there were many others. Nearly a dozen adults and three children were curled up on the floor, fast asleep, pressing close to one another to conserve their collective heat like a pack of dogs. A fire had been lit in the hearth and had now burnt low, casting red, flickering shadows in the artificial darkness where the thin beams of daylight didn't pierce through the boards over the windows. At a rickety table in the corner, the alpha was speaking in low tones with his primary scouts, two men whom Mavis knew only by the names of Brushtail and Howler. Mavis went to the hearth and stacked another fresh log onto the dying coals, ears perked for anything he could catch as he warmed his hands.

"–We need to move," Brushtail was saying, his voice a low growl in the darkness. "We're too close to the human villages here; if a hunter comes across us–"

"Humans only hunt in the fall," Alpha broke in, with a tone of authority. "We can stay at least another month."

"We ought to move east, further into Eryri," Howler countered. "The game will be better there, anyhow; we can't keep surviving on rabbits forever."

"Always thinking about your gullet, Howler," the Alpha sneered. "This is a warm den, with space. We need supplies, anyhow; the man-houses around here are owned by muggles. Full moon is in three days; we can attack without any trouble."

"Alpha…" Brushtail's voice drifted off, low and nervous. "…We can't wait for her forever…"

Immediately, Mavis knew he had gone too far; Greyback seized the man by the ears and slammed him hard against the table, breaking the latter in two. Brushtail yowled and hit the floor with a moan, clutching at his broken nose as the air filled with the scent of blood. Several of the pack woke and looked up dazedly, interest; several more simply rolled over and went back to sleep. "In case you've forgotten, this is _my_ pack," Alpha snarled, baring his fangs. "I decide when we go and when we stay. Is that clear?"

Brushtail let out a wolfish whimper and nodded. Greyback sneered. "Pathetic. Get out of my sight; go take the watch from– eh! Bounder!"

Mavis stiffened at the sound of his pack-name and turned. The alpha was scowling at him, a very terrifying look indeed. "Aren't you supposed to be on guard? What are you doing in here?"

Mavis ducked his head, dropping to a knee in a sign of submission. "Just warming up, Alpha. Loper took over."

"Hn." He nodded to Brushtail. "Go relieve Loper then." The scout, sensing that this was not the time to complain about being double-shifted, quickly hurried for the door, trying to stifle the blood dripping from his nose. He had just barely touched the handle, however, when the door suddenly burst open, causing him to sidestep in surprise.

Maverick strode in, his expression grim yet pleased. "Alpha," he said, dropping to a knee, "There's someone here to see you."

Anyone who was not still asleep at this point immediately sat up in interest, shaking the others awake. Maverick didn't dare break eye contact with his alpha, but the meaning was clear to everyone in the room. Fenrir Greyback's face had turned to one of shock, and he stood, pacing to the door without a word. Everyone else followed hesitantly, Maverick and Mavis just behind the scouts, to where Alpha had stopped in the doorway, motionless. Speechless.

On the other side of the doorway stood a young woman– thin, scarred, dressed in ragged muggle clothing but with a ratty cloak slung over her shoulders. With her eyes downcast, she fell to all fours, kneeling in the snow. No one dared to speak.

"…Get up," Alpha said at last, in a very odd tone– low, but not quite a growl, and with uncertain emotion. Slowly, the woman got to her feet, still not daring to meet his eyes. She was shivering. The alpha glanced over her once, and then stepped back, leaving the doorway open.

Murmurs sprang up among the members of the pack. The woman herself looked stunned; clearly she hadn't been expecting such sympathy. Cyclops, one of the betas, murmured: "Alpha, if I may be so bold…"

"You may not," Greyback snarled, rounding on him. The man stepped back respectfully, lowering his gaze. "Am I not free to deal with own cub as I wish?" Nobody dared to reply. "Get out. All of you, now."

Within moments, the farmhouse was cleared; Mavis was the last to go, casting the young woman a worried look as he closed the door behind them. Then the room fell dark.

There was a long silence. The woman still hadn't dare to meet her alpha's eyes. The man stared down at her, face inscrutable, like stone.

 _Crack!_

The sound of the backhand echoed against the stone as the woman stumbled sideways, clutching at her face. Still, she neither raised her eyes, nor uttered a sound.

Then, she felt strong arms close around her, and she let out a tearful gasp, embracing her father in return. "You foolish girl," Greyback muttered, holding his daughter tightly. "Why did you come back here?"

"I had to, Father," she whispered, voice choked. "You were right about them. You were right about everything." She drew back, tears in her great golden eyes. "Is- is there any way I could–"

"Bright Eyes, you know the punishment for abandoning the pack," the alpha said heavily, shaking his head. "If you weren't my cub I would have killed you already; as it is, the best I can do is banish you."

"Then you may as well kill me now," she choked out. "Father, that's why I came back. You were right about the humans. They were cruel, and heartless– none of them, none of them would help me! And not just me– so many of their own, they passed by on the streets, starving, begging, and no one helped them, no one…"

"That is how humans are, Bright Eyes," he growled, but his anger was not towards her. "They have no loyalty, not even to their own kind. I have told you this always. Why, why would you disobey me like this?"

She looked down again, obviously ashamed. The man sighed, shook his head. "I ought to have known this would happen," he muttered gruffly. "Your mother's blood is still strong in you." She winced, as if this were the worst insult he could deliver. "Bright Eyes, I am the alpha of this pack, the oldest pack in the history of our kind… if I allow my own cub to escape the punishment for disloyalty, how will I be able to lead the others? No. You… you will have to leave."

No one who saw him would have known it, but it destroyed him to say it.

But the woman had one last plea. "What if… what if I proved my loyalty?" she said hesitantly, glancing up. "Would that appease the others?"

Her father regarded her shrewdly. "You mean by turning Feral."

"Yes. I…" She hesitated, and then continued. "You know I have always refused, Father, because of my mother's blood… but now I know better. You were right, Father, right about them and about her." She stiffened her shoulders. "I would turn Feral to prove my loyalty, and then you could refuse to let me run again. Wouldn't that be punishment enough?"

Greyback frowned, considering it. There was, as a general rule, no greater punishment an alpha could give his Ferals than to refuse to let them run wild on the full moon, to bar them from the hunt, save for exile or death. And his daughter's refusal to turn had always been a matter of some embarrassment to him before the eyes of the pack. If she did so now, it would reaffirm her obedience to him and prove that he had authority. "…My clever cub," he said at last, a small smile twitching his mouth and showing the edge of his fang. "Perhaps you will make a fine alpha yet."

The young woman realized what he meant, and broke into a smile with a gasp, throwing her arms around him. "Oh, Father, thank you!" she exclaimed, tears filling her eyes once more. "I promise, I won't let you down… not again…"

He let out several low, gruff chuckles and embraced her again, unutterably grateful. His cub was home, where she belonged. And he would never let her go again.

When at last the pair broke apart, he settled a hand on her shoulder. "But now you know why I have kept you far from the humans, Bright Eyes," he said bitterly. "They are weak, selfish creatures, fit only to be consumed."

"And wizards the worst among them," she agreed, her golden eyes growing dark with a glare to match his own. "To think, to think I would have grown up like them, weak and cowardly… I was so foolish…"

"It is a lesson we have all learned through foolishness," he countered, "And you were not half so foolish as I was, to have trusted your mother…" His voice faded off in a low snarl; there were some insults that could never be repaid. "But tell me, what happened? What convinced you to come back?"

And so she told him the whole story, from the first moment she left the pack to when, after having been thrown to the ground by a particularly disgusted man, she realized she could never belong among them. Her father's face went stony; no heir of Melion should ever condescend to beg from humans, but to be treated such? His blood burned. No, he would not stand it. "This human," he growled, eyes blazing, "Who was he? What was his name?"

"I can't be sure, but he dropped this as he left." From within the holed pockets of her cloak, she withdrew a small envelope and handed it to him. The alpha opened it and withdrew a piece of folded parchment paper; it seemed to be some sort of notice, regarding the taxes owed on a property in Gwennyd– not far from where they were, it seemed. He searched for a name, and found it just above the address:

 _Mr. Theron Lowell_

* * *

 **A/N: So that's the prologue! I know it's short, but I got it up a week earlier than I intended; what do you all think? Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2: The Prophet

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here.

 **Warnings (PLEASE READ!): drunkenness, cursing, some very intense references to when Remus was attacked as a child, and some** _ **extremely**_ **depressive thoughts.** **DO NOT** **read if suffering from depression!**

 **Also, this story will definitely be more religious in content than** _ **Full and New.**_ **Just so it doesn't catch you off-guard.**

* * *

 **July 1996.**

"We need to get out of this house."

Remus cast her a glance out of the corner of his eye and _hmmed_ noncommittally.

"Remus. I'm _serious."_

He opened his mouth, and the grief drove hard into his chest.

 _No, he's Sirius._

"Molly has been coddling us ever since– well, ever since," Tonks continued, oblivious to his sudden discomfort. "I think if I have to eat one more helping of hotpot or take one more cup of sympathy tea, I'm going to blow my top. We need to _do_ something."

"Help me clean the oven then."

"You've cleaned that oven three times," she returned bluntly, "and I meant something _real._ Living life. Seeing the world. Bloody basilisks, Remus, he wouldn't have wanted us to sit pent up here, waiting for Death Eaters to burst through that door and do is in too!"

"We don't know what he would have wanted!" the werewolf snapped, quite uncharacteristically, scrubbing hard at a particularly stubborn stain in the metal. His girlfriend fell silent, and guilt joined grief and anger, prompting him to let out a sigh. "…I'm sorry," he said tiredly, setting down the rag and turning to look at where she was sitting in a cushion-lined basket chair. "It's just…"

"I know," Tonks said softly. "I miss him, too. And that's why," she added, pushing herself out of the chair with a mild noise of discomfort, "we need to get out, go… anywhere. Get out of our heads, be real people again. Don't you think Sirius would tell us that if he could?"

He was about to mumble something about how he couldn't possibly imagine the inner workings of the mind of Sirius Black, before he paused and considered it. To his reluctant acknowledgment, the answer was obvious: of course Sirius would have said that, throwing in a wink and a dirty joke for good measure. "…He probably would," Remus admitted. "Then again, you're still healing."

Tonks brushed this off with a wave of her hand. "I can rest when I'm dead." She crouched down beside him, warm brown looking into hazel. "Let's go, Remus," she said quietly. "Toast his memory. Live our lives."

He looked to her with uncertain eyes, studied her features– her cheekbones, her nose, the proud tilt of her head, the barest traces of fey-like madness in her warm eyes. He saw Sirius looking out from the face of his cousin, and Remus almost heard him whisper, _Go on, mate. And kiss the pretty ones for me, eh?_

To Tonks's delight, a slow smile began to spread across his face, the first she had seen in the three weeks since Sirius Black's last stand. "Alright," he agreed, rising to his feet. She stood with him. "For Sirius."

Her face broke into a grin, and she took his hand, tugging him towards the door. "So where to? _The Hound and the Hare?"_

"No… no, I have somewhere special in mind, if that's alright with you?"

Her eyes sparkled with excitement, and together they left the Burrow, heading for the apparition point beyond the stone fence. Remus took a deep breath and decided that yes, it was time.

 _Trust me, brother, I will._

* * *

The typical _crack_ of apparition greeted them as they steadied one another, each subconsciously checking for any unusual pains or missing limbs. Dora looked around with interest at the unfamiliar surroundings. They seemed to be at the edge of a small meadow, in the valley of two grassy hills and flanked by trees on all sides. The air was cool and filled with the briny scent of the sea. "Where are we?"

"Llanbedrog," the werewolf answered calmly, starting forward, "Or a few minutes' walk from it, anyhow."

"Llanbedrog? You mean– where you grew up?"

"And live."

This was a surprise to her; she hadn't realized that Remus still lived in the town where he had spent his childhood. Wordlessly they set off down the path, hand in hand, the young auror relishing in the heat of his palm against hers. After passing through a small copse of trees that sloped ever downward, they found themselves at the edge of a cliff overlooking the coast, not far from a small village with white-washed buildings. Brightly colored huts lined the beach, from which drifted the sound of laughing children and sweethearts on holiday. A smile crossed the werewolf's face. "Busy season," he said fondly, "I forgot. We'll be trapped among the tourists, we will."

"Are we going down then?"

"Mm. I just wanted you to the see the view; I used to come up here all the time as a boy."

They continued along the path down to beach and into the town. As they passed by small groups of muggle tourists, Remus adopted a lower tone. "It's really a place of two worlds, you know; about a fifth of the population here is magical, living side-by-side with muggles, befriending them, sharing the truth with those they can trust. Half the MI0 muggle recruits came from here."

"Why are there are so many wizards here?"

"Ah, well, probably best to explain that in private. There's a wizarding pub a few blocks down, this way."

She followed him to what appeared to be a small, rundown bait shop, with signs in the windows reading _CLOSED INDEFINITELY._ Just ahead of them, two young men were talking in Welsh. As they approached, one of them seemed to start and turn back with an exclamation; the other laughed and grabbed his arm, pulling him towards the doors. Beside her, Tonks heard Remus chuckle. "What was that?"

"Muggle-repelling charms. Work even on the ones who know what this place is; they'll go back to turn off their irons three times unless a wizard pulls them in. Stay out here a minute; I'll get us a table."

Although Tonks considered this a curious request, she agreed and waited until Remus returned again, a look of mild annoyance on his face that quickly vanished as he spotted her again. "This way."

To her surprise, he led her around to the back, where another door was cracked open. Remus motioned for her to be quiet, and together they slipped inside. A moment later, she found herself in a dimly lit back hallway next to a kitchen door.

Quite apart from the appearance of a bait shop, the interior of the pub was much larger than the exterior, with hardwood walls and floor and smelling strongly of fried chips. The walls were decorated with, much to Tonks's shock, a variety of beast-hunter paraphernalia, the most common of which were silver knives, spears, and animal traps. "Remus?" she murmured under her breath, now distinctly uncomfortable. "What exactly is this place?"

 _"Y Saeth Arian,"_ he replied in Welsh, and then translated, _"The Silver Arrow."_

"And you expect me to take this all as coincidence, do you?"

"Not at all. As I said, I'll explain more once we're in private. Now follow my lead." He eyed the rest of the pub's patrons warily from his position in the shadows, and then, in one swift and decisive movement, slipped out of the hallway and into a cramped corner booth. Immediately Tonks recognized the ingenious plan: that booth in particular was situated near the kitchen, facing away from the rest of the pub and thus hiding its patrons from any prying eyes.

More astoundingly, however, was the small portrait that hung on the wall beside them, illuminated by the flickering light of the gas lamp. Even without looking at the name, the auror could not help but recognize the familiar long face, straight nose and strong jaw. The only differences were that the Remus Lupin before her had short hair and shoulders bent with humility, whereas the _Remus Lupinus VIII_ in the portrait had an arrogant lift of his chin and long auburn locks tied back with a strap of leather. He blinked down at them haughtily through crystalline blue eyes.

"Family of yours?" the auror managed lightly as she sat, though inside she felt very much unnerved.

"Mm. Great, great– honestly, I don't know how many greats– grandfather. Remus the Eighth, most famous werewolf hunter in the history of Wales. Well– infamous, I suppose, depending."

 _"Werewolf_ hunter?"

He was about to reply when the bartender appeared by their table, a man of about fifty with thinning gray hair. _"Remus,"_ the man said warmly, and then continued in Welsh, _"Mae'n ddrwg gen i am hynny; eich bod yn gwybod sut y caiff ei..."*_

Remus shrugged. _"Rwy'n deall; mae'n fusnes. Ni allaf ddychmygu fy mod eich cwsmer mwyaf poblogaidd."_

The man snorted. _"Dylech fod wedi clywed y sgwrs o gwmpas yma ychydig flynyddoedd yn ôl. Rwy'n credu eu hanner roedd agos barod i gymryd y reifflau oddi ar y waliau ac ymosod ar y bwthyn!"_

 _"Gyda enw fy nhad-cu fel ei alwad i uno, yn ddiau."_

Both seemed to chuckle grimly at that, and then the bartender shook his head. _"Wel, y cyfan sydd sbwriel o'r neilltu, beth allaf fynd â chi?"_

 _"Mm. Pysgod a sglodion, a peint o stowt."_

The bartender nodded and scribbled on his pad, before turning to Tonks. _"Ac i chi?"_

"English, sorry," she apologized.

"Ah, no trouble. Anything for one of my best customers." He winked at her. "Remus has been a regular here since he was in nappies."

The werewolf blushed. "Dora, meet Job Heylyn. His familiy's owned the pub since–"

"–Since Melion himself prowled these woods!" Job said with pride, and then chuckled. "Or at least, that's what my Tad always said."

"Melion?" Tonks repeated. The name sounded vaguely familiar.

Job glanced to Remus, who shook his head. "That's why I brought her here."

"Brought me here?" Every minute was making Tonks more curious, and curiosity, Remus knew, was not something she handed well.

"I promise, Tonks, I will explain," he replied soothingly. "Would you care for anything?"

The auror shot him a frown, and then, said reluctantly, "…I could go for a firewhiskey."

"Firewhiskey, stout and some fish and chips, then; thank you, Job." The bartender inclined his head and left, throwing the werewolf a wink that caused a blush to rise on his cheeks.

"Remus, what exactly is going on?" the young woman across the table demanded, hair fizzling red to match her scowl, and Remus smiled despite the weight of the situation. "What is this place? What's with all the– all the–"

"I said I'd explain," he cut her off, holding up a placating hand. "Just… give me a moment, alright?"

The auror leaned back in the both and crossed her arms, still frowning. Remus closed his eyes, thinking how best to explain it concisely, and then opened them again, letting out a low sigh. "Tonks. You took History of Magic in school, didn't you?"

"Of course. What kind of question is that?"

"Do you, perchance, recall anything about a man named Melion the Wolfish? Perhaps during your Arthurian unit?"

"Oh, Merlin," she sighed, but with a teasing grin, "Don't tell me you were one of those poor sods who actually paid _attention_ to Binns."

Remus chuckled. "As it happened, I was, although I didn't need to for that particular lesson. I suppose you could say it was… family history." Tonks cocked her head, confused, and he sighed again. "Well, the long and short of it is that Melion the Wolfish, or _Æmilianus Lupinus,_ properly, was very nearly my ancestor… as well as the first werewolf in Great Britain."

Dora's eyes flew wide. "You mean– _you,_ of all people–"

"I said nearly," he clarified, "and that's important. As you know, werewolves can't, ah…" He coughed, blushing. "We, ah, can't have children." Her mouth opened into a small _o._ "So, technically speaking, I'm the descendent of Melion's wife, not Melion himself."

"Well that's quite a trick," she said, eyebrows raised. "I'm afraid you're not quite making sense there, love."

"Agh, I'm getting the whole story mixed around…" He shook his head, thinking, and then restarted:

"King Arthur, when he was a boy, had a Roman slave by the name of Æmilianus, or Melion, who as it happened was a werewolf. Eventually Arthur gave him his freedom to become a knight, and a castle in the north of Wales not far from where we now sit." Her ears perked up at that, not missing the implications. "Melion then married an Irish princess, who had an affair with his squire and conceived two twin boys whom Melion at first thought to be his own. He was overjoyed, but the princess, unhappy with the relationship, devised a plan to get rid of him.

"The legend, at least among wizards, goes that Melion had a ring which allowed him to keep his mind during the full moon, much like the Wolfsbane potion does for me. The princess was also a very powerful witch, so she placed an enchantment on the ring to stop him from turning human again after the moon had set. Unfortunately, as you and I well know, the transformation is… very resilient, against any attempts to halt or redirect it one way or another."

"So what happened?" Tonks asked, voice hushed.

"Melion did turn back, but only partially; he regained his human mind, but couldn't speak, and his face was so disfigured that none could recognize him. Enraged, he followed the princess and her lover to Ireland, where he built a pack. The princess convinced her father, the king, to hunt down the werewolves; Melion alone escaped the purge and, filled with grief and anger, was about to give himself over to death, when he heard that his old liege, King Arthur, was soon to arrive to settle a treaty between England and Ireland.

"Although Arthur could not discern that the mute beggar was his old friend, he took Melion into his service, and the man became so ingratiated to the king that he was allowed to attend the treaty. When he saw the princess and the squire, now a prince, in the great hall, he attacked the man outright. Terrified, the squire explained everything, and the princess was compelled to return her husband to his ordinary form. Unfortunately, the damage was done; although he regained his power of speech, Melion's wolfish characteristics remained.

"You mean he was a Feral," Tonks asserted. Remus nodded.

"Enraged, Melion made to kill the princess, but was convinced by Arthur to leave her alive, for the sake of the children. That, generally, is where the story ends… unless, of course, you're connected to the rest." He ran a hand through his dusty brown hair, his hazel eyes older than his face. "You see, for reasons unknown, somehow Melion's attack on the squire had infected him, even though it wasn't the full. Later that month, when the full moon rose, the unsuspecting squire transformed in his bed beside the princess… she and the younger son managed to escape, but the elder was bitten. Horrified by what he'd done, the squire hung himself the next morning, and Melion took the boy for himself."

"Let me guess," Tonks said quietly. "The boys were named Romulus and Remus?"

The man nodded tiredly. "Just so. Melion and Romulus were the 'forefathers,' so to speak, of every werewolf now in Britain– myself included. Legend has it that Melion placed a curse on the younger brother, as well, that he and his children would always be at war with the wolves until they themselves became what they hated. Remus's line, in return, became some of the most skilled beast-hunters to ever live, specializing in the extermination of werewolves."

"Your family?" she said softly. He nodded. "Remus… I didn't know."

"I didn't want you to know." He paused, and then drew a deep breath. "But you have a right to it, I believe." Tonks tilted her head, confused, and he felt his heartbeat quicken. Could he really do this? Was it the right moment? What if he were being foolish, asking her to spend this poverty with him, perhaps even putting her in danger?

"Remus?" The beautiful auror was frowning at him, confused. "Love, you don't look well; are you alright?"

His heart was in his throat. "I–"

"Here we are!" Remus looked up, startled, to see Job approach the booth, carrying a bottle, a pint of stout and a basket of fried fish and sliced potatoes. "A firewhiskey for the lady," he said, setting the bottle down on the table. "And stout for the gent."

"Thanks," Tonks said warmly, going to open the bottle– and promptly knocked it off the table. The glass shattered on the ground, drawing strange looks from the other patrons. Remus ducked his head, careful not to be seen, as Tonks stammered out apologies.

Job waved them away. "No trouble; I'll get you another." He bent down and began to pick up the larger pieces of glass, prompting a confused frown from Tonks. Upon glancing up, the bartender flushed and cleared his throat. "Ah- if it wouldn't be any trouble, Miss, don't suppose you could…?" He gestured to the wand in her pocket.

"Oh, er, probably not," she replied with a laugh. "I'm rubbish at household spells; knowing me, I'd set the place on fire. Probably best if you do it…"

"Tonks," Remus said uncomfortably, drawing her gaze. He gave a small shake of his head.

It took her a moment to decipher this, but when she did, the auror's cheeks and hair both turned a dark magenta. "Oh," she said, embarrassed, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

Job brushed it off. "Don't be. Not your fault, is it?" His face hardened. "But I'd rather it not get around, mind. Don't want any of that Death Eater lot beating down my pub door looking for squibs. Bad for business, it is."

"I'm so sorry," she repeated, drawing her wand and gathering the glittering splinters up in a neat pile and sending it towards the rubbish bin behind the bar. Job thanked her, still a bit red, and went to fetch another bottle. "Oh, I can't believe I did that!" Tonks groaned, burying her face in her hands. Remus chuckled, and she shot him a fake glare. "It's not funny!"

"Don't worry; Job Heylyn's not the sort to hold a grudge."

She grimaced again, and then shook her head. "Anyway… what was it you were going to say?"

"I was…" Remus hesitated. No, he couldn't do it, not yet. Besides, a pub was no place to ask a lady's hand.

The crumbling ruins of a family castle, on the other hand…

"I was wondering," he said, leaning forward with a mischievous smile, "if you'd like to go for a little hike."

* * *

"Oh, wow!"

Remus smiled as he watched the auror rush forward up the hill towards the crumbling ruins, her hair flushing pink and aqua in stripes. "Remus, this is incredible!" Dora cried, whirling around; joy sparkled in her warm brown eyes. "Is this yours?"

"My family's, yes," he replied, walking up to meet her. "I'm afraid it's not worth much now, but apparently in its time it was a great fortress."

"Can we go inside?"

"Certainly." He offered her his arm, and she giggled, taking it with a grin. A blaze of warmth rushed through his veins, as if he'd had too much wine, and something akin to the alcoholic giddiness filled his mind: he could to this. He _would_ to do this.

And, from the look of wonder and love in her eyes, he felt sure, for the first time in his life, that someone as beautiful as she might actually say yes.

He led her through the crumbling Roman archways of the keep to the overgrown courtyard, scented with flowers and the smell of warm grass. The sun was shining brightly, casting a golden spell over the garden. And inside him, deep in his blood, Remus felt the ancient family call, like an echo in a well…

"What's that?"

He started from his thoughts to find that Tonks's eyes had caught upon a glimmer of light through the foliage, and he smiled. "Why don't we go see?" he suggested, but with a twinkle in his eye. The auror smiled with excitement, and, like a proper knight of the household, he led her along the crumbling cobblestone path to the center of the garden.

Tonks gasped as the marble pool came into view, breaking her hold on his arm to dash forward and lean over the edge. Remus walked up to join her, and found that today, the ancient mosaic showed a clear blue sky, lit by the dazzling golden rays of the sun. On the green moors, gray wolves dashed to and fro, chasing each other and rolling in the grass. "It's beautiful," the auror whispered. "Is this…?"

"This was the home of my ancestors… and of Melion." She turned to look at him, a sadness coloring the wonder in her eyes, and he smiled ruefully. "It seems strange, doesn't it? That something so beautiful could come be created by the same people who had perpetrated so much ugliness?"

"It's tragic," she murmured, drawing back and looking down at the pool. "It almost feels wrong, to admire it so much…"

"Don't feel guilty," he said hurriedly; the last thing he wanted was for her to be sad. "I think it's beautiful, too… I used to come up here every day as a boy. Well, every day my parents would let me, anyhow…"

"Why wouldn't they? It's yours, isn't it?"

"Yes… not that there's much value to it, now. The land won't grow anything, and the ruins aren't worth much in money. But they preferred to keep me near the house; it was safer that way…"

"Safer?"

Remus hesitated. He had never told Tonks when, exactly, he had been bitten. He knew that if revealed too soon, she would cease to think of him as a man in his own right and only ever see the child, the victim. And he had fought for thirty-two years to put as much distance between that little boy and himself as possible. Perhaps, soon, he would trust her enough… but today was not that day. No, today, everything had to be perfect.

"Tonks," he said, and now his tone was different– hesitant, but hopeful and kind. He sat down on the edge of the pool, hands folded nervously, "I was hoping, while we were here, that we could talk…"

"Oh? What about?" She sat down beside him, tilting her head, but he could see the gears turning in her mind.

"Tonks, we… we care for each other, do we not? Love each other, in fact?"

"Of course," the auror said, surprised. "Remus, what's going on?"

"I… I know we've only been seeing each other for a few months, and this might seem hasty– but I've been thinking, we're at war, aren't we? And there's no time for hesitation in a war. It's a time to– to take chances, to have hope–

He took her hands in his, and an expression of joy fluttered across her face. Remus felt his heart leap. She knew. She knew what he was going to ask, and she was _excited._ He took a deep breath. "Tonks– Dora– what I'm trying to say is–"

But before he could get the words out, he was interrupted by a flash of silver swooping in out of the sky, startling them both. As the phoenix patronus came to perch upon the branch of a nearby tree, both scrambled to their feet, embarrassed. "P-Professor Dumbledore?" Remus stammered, inwardly cursing the older wizard's poor timing. "Was there, er, something you needed?"

 _"Remus, Tonks, I am truly sorry to interrupt,"_ the phoenix said gravely, staring at them with serious silver eyes, _"but I'm calling the Order to an emergency meeting… I'm afraid we've no time to lose."_

* * *

The teacher's lounge hadn't changed in the two years since Remus had frequented it, but the atmosphere was now remarkably less cheerful than even when Sirius– his heart twisted at the memory, guilty for having believed the worst of the man for so long– had been on the loose. The faces of the other Order members were grave, and some of them filled with pity as they caught his eyes, before quickly looking away.

That was his first clue that something was very, very wrong.

Dumbledore entered behind them, starry plum robes swishing and his face very somber; everyone stood as he took his place at the head of the staff table. "I hereby call this meeting of the Second Order of the Phoenix to order," he intoned grimly. "Minerva, if you could take the roll?"

The deputy headmistress nodded. "Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, president?"

"Present."

"Minerva McGonagall, deputy president, also present. Alastor Moody, executive martial strategist?"

"Present," Moody growled, his magical eye swiveling every which way.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt, executive political strategist?"

"Present," Kingsley intoned, inclining his head.

McGonagall ran through the rest of the names in alphabetical order, finishing with, "George Weasley," who raised a finger from the back; he and his twin both wore a far too serious look for their normally jovial faces. Molly stood beside them; Remus noticed that her eyes were red, as if she had recently been in tears.

"We will dispense with the reading of minutes and the member reports for today," Dumbledore began as everyone took their seats, tone heavy, "for I'm afraid this meeting has only been called for one purpose. I can assume that you are all aware of what happened last night?"

A prickle ran down Remus's back. The night previous had been the full moon, which he had spent on the open moors around the Burrow. As everyone else nodded, he forced himself to speak up: "I don't."

Every eye turned to him, stunned. Molly gave an odd little shudder, like she was repressing a sob. "Remus– didn't you read the _Prophet?"_ said McGonagall, her voice strangely thick.

"We don't get it direct on weekdays," Arthur spoke up lowly. "Too far outside of the village… Molly goes into town…"

"Would someone please tell me what is going on?" Remus demanded, voice sharper than he meant it; everyone flinched. At last, someone produced a _Prophet_ and it was passed around the table to him. As soon as Remus saw the front page, he understood their reactions. The paper bore a pair of photos, the first being a young man of about twenty, laughing with a pretty girl; the second, the infamous photograph of none other than Fenrir Greyback lunging forward, found in the camera beside a nearly indistinguishable body… three days after the reporter had gone missing. And in stark black letters above these were the words:

 **MAN MURDERED AFTER DEFYING DEATH EATERS;**

 **FENRIR GREYBACK SUSPECTED**

A soft groan escaped his mouth. He should have known this would happen. He should have known.

And he should have known, Remus thought numbly to himself, what would be required of him.

When he looked up, every eyes was fixed on him, including Tonks, who was wide-eyed. "Oh, Merlin," she whispered. "Oh, Remus…"

"It was bound to happen eventually," he sighed, setting the paper down. "We all knew that Voldemort was trying to get the packs on his side; it was only a matter of time."

"What can we do?" Molly Weasley spoke up– perhaps "spoke" was not quite the word, for her voice was barely more than a whisper. "Last time–"

"Last time, Voldemort's interest in the werewolf packs was minimal at best," Moody growled. "Now it seems he's realized the need to form alliances… and Greyback knows how to strike fear into the population's hearts, no doubt about that…"

"He will be a powerful ally to the Death Eaters," Kingsley asserted, expression troubled though his voice was calm. "And a considerable force in battle. Frankly, I wouldn't fancy facing off with one of them."

"They don't fight with wands, or at least, that's what the stories say. Muggle dueling, as it were."

"Surely a few spells would take care of the problem?"

"You can't count on that; most spells don't work on Ferals."

"And so the question remains," Dumbledore spoke, raising his voice above the rest and making the rest of the room fall silent, "what, exactly, can be done."

A long pause passed, and then a voice came from the corner. "It seems to me, Headmaster," said Severus, quietly and without malice, "that there is only one thing that _can_ be done."

Another beat of silence filled the room, and then every eye was drawn to Tonks as she stood, face pale and hair flushed to black. "No," she said, voice hushed.

"Dora," Remus said softly.

 _"No._ You can't go, Remus! They'd kill you! Don't you understand?" she cried, turning to the rest, "They'll _kill_ him!"

"Forgive me, Miss Tonks, we had all quite _forgotten_ that war is a dangerous affair," Severus replied icily.

Tonks ignored this. "You don't understand! It wouldn't– it would be– Remus, you have to tell them! Tell them what you told me today, make them understand–"

"There is little to understand," he said tonelessly. "My family's history with werewolves is not uncommon knowledge, for those who would look for it… and it changes nothing."

"Changes nothing!" she exclaimed tearfully. "Remus– you can't be meaning to go!" When he didn't respond, she turned to the headmaster. "Professor, please! You can't make him do this!"

"Of course I cannot," replied Dumbledore quietly. "This choice is Remus's alone."

The auror looked between them, shocked, pleading. The werewolf felt every eye fixed on him, but he could not dare to look up, especially not at her. If he did, he knew he would never have the courage. Instead, he looked to the headmaster, the man who had given him a hope, a future… "Might I have the evening to think on it?"

The old wizard's expression was one of the deepest understanding. "Of course, Remus. Take all the time you need."

The meeting was concluded soon after, with everyone in a very subdued mood. No one seemed to want to look him in the eyes. As Remus headed for the floo, he felt a hand catch at his elbow, and he turned.

Nymphadora looked back with frightened eyes; her hair was still a gleaming pitch-back. "Where are you going?" she demanded outright, but there was a quiver in her voice. "Remus, promise me you're not about to do anything stupid–"

"I wasn't, Tonks. I… I just need to think…" He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but he could tell from the way it sat awkwardly on his mouth that it looked as fake as it felt.

"You're not the only one." The younger pair glanced over to see a very tired Professor McGonagall looking back. "The Hound and the Hare," she said, in a tone that was not to be questioned. "First round's on me."

* * *

The Hound and the Hare Inn and Pub, serving the wizarding population of Inverness for over two hundred years, was nearly empty by the time the Order members arrived. The trio was not alone; Mad-Eye Moody had joined them, limping along on his false leg and grumbling about "blasted Scotland rain," and even Snape had deigned to make an appearance, dusting ashes off his black cloak as he stepped out of the fire. Remus eyed him in surprise. "Didn't think you'd be accompanying us, Severus."

"Don't expect me to make a habit of it," the potioneer sneered, in his usual foul temperament, and then added in grudging solidarity: "…But after a meeting like that, even I could use a pint."

The fireplace flared again behind them, and McGonagall herself stepped out. The bartender (who was nodding as he pretended to listen to some old farmer's droning) caught her eye, grinned, and quickly hurried over. "Minnie!" he said warmly, giving her a bone-crushing hug. "It's been too long!"

"It's been three weeks, Robert," the witch replied tartly as they parted.

"An eternity in times like these, sister mine." Robert McGonagall studied their grim faces and raised an eyebrow. "I suppose you lot will be wanting the back room, then?"

"That we would," Moody growled. "Can't be too careful, days like these…"

"Well then, right this way…"

Robert McGonagall led them to a small wood-paneled room, in which sat a long table suitable for groups. With a wave of his wand the candles were lit and a weak fire burst to light in the cold hearth. "Alright, what can I get you lot?"

"Firewhiskey," Tonks started as they took their seats.

Remus raised a finger. "Pint of stout. Guinness, if you have it." Robert nodded and turned to Mad-Eye.

"Firewhiskey."

"Samuel Smith's Imperial," Snape said impassively, and despite the seriousness of the situation Remus had to hide a smile at the thought of Severus Snape drinking muggle beer.

"Tomatin," McGonagall said tiredly, and her brother looked up at her, startled.

"That bad then?" Everyone nodded in grim unison, and he frowned. "What was it? Er– if you can tell me, that is?"

Snape, Mad-Eye and Tonks glanced around at each other; Remus and McGonagall merely stared at the table, lost in their own thoughts. Robert frowned, concerned. "Minnie?"

"Greyback," Mad-Eye growled, sparing her the name. Realization dawned on the barkeep's face.

"Bloody basilisks," he murmured. "Well… that considered, first round's on the house."

"Robert, you needn't–" McGonagall began, but he cut her off.

"My treat, Minnie. Consider it a toast."

The witch nodded, and her brother patted her on the back before disappearing into the kitchen. Then there was a long silence, broken only by the faint crackling of the fire.

"Remus, you can't really be thinking of doing this," Tonks broke in at last, her hair now a bright orange. Remus knew that it was her color for worry. To be honest, he didn't know what he was thinking; back in the teacher's lounge he had been all grim courage and gallows humor. Now his characteristic cowardice was rising up inside him again, thick and suffocating…

"The lad's a grown man, lassie," Mad-Eye replied. "He'll make his own decision…"

"But he could be killed!"

"We could all be killed!" Snape snapped coldly. "This is war, Ms. Tonks; your personal affections do not matter to the Dark Lord or his allies!"

"Don't you 'Ms. Tonks' me, _Severus;_ I'm not your student anymore–"

"Easy, lass; you're turning red," Mad-Eye advised. Tonks blushed and patted at her now-scarlet hair. "Severus, what are the chances of a favorable outcome of Remus goes through with this?"

Snape shrugged. "How should I know? I try to interact with Greyback as little as possible."

"That's not helpful," Tonks snapped.

"The situation is straightforward; either Fenrir Greyback will accept Lupin into the pack, or he'll kill him on sight. I don't know how much help you expect me to be."

"It's like you don't even care if he dies!"

 _"Well if I did, I wouldn't be the first one, would I?"_

The whole table fell silent. Remus had looked up and was glaring hard at Professor McGonagall. "Remus," Mad-Eye warned, but the man paid him no mind.

"You better than anyone should know how badly this could go," Remus said lowly. "Are you really going to tell me that this is a good idea, after what happened last time?"

"I'm certain I have no idea what you mean," McGonagall replied coolly.

The werewolf slammed his hands down on the table. "Blast it all, Professor, if you think anyone here's buying that cock-and-bull story about a venomous tentecula–!"

 _"Remus, that's enough!"_

The werewolf fell silent, although he was still breathing heavily. McGonagall's face had gone pale and tight… but there were tears glimmering in her green feline eyes. Upon seeing this, Remus let out a relenting sigh.

"I'm sorry. I went too far." He stood and said shame-facedly, "I think I should go outside… cool down a bit…"

"Smartest thing you've said all evening, laddie," Mad-Eye growled. Remus winced and took his leave, heading for the door. As it shut behind him, Professor McGonagall let out a little quivering gasp and clutched at her mouth, her hand trembling. Dora watched this all for a moment, half-bewildered, and then stood and muttered her apologies as she headed for the door, figuring that if Remus would welcome company from anyone right now, it would be her.

She found him standing outside, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and staring off at the distant horizon. Remus didn't look over as she leaned up beside him, nor did he speak. And so, she waited. Her thoughts drifted off to the mission, to the pile of paperwork on her desk, to the mission, to the way his eyes had shone when he took her hand that afternoon, to the mission…

"Did I ever tell you why my middle name is John?"

Tonks blinked and looked over. "Huh? Oh, er, no… I always assumed it was a family name."

Remus shook his head, eyes still fixed on the moors and something else, something she couldn't see. "My mother gave it to me. She was a very pious woman, you know… she had a great admiration for John the Baptist."

"Can't say I ever heard of him."

Remus sighed and curled his arms tighter, looking cold or wary. Perhaps both. "He was a prophet who lived a very long time ago. He was trying to call the people to righteousness." The man laughed bitterly, "Well, you know people. They don't much like being told to change."

"I suppose not."

"One day he got word that the king of the land had murdered his own brother in order to marry his wife. John went to the king and queen and chastised them for their sins. Well, that went over about as well as you can imagine. The queen was so furious that she demanded his head on a silver platter, when all John had ever done was tell the truth." Remus turned to her suddenly, hazel eyes blazing like fire. "But that's what theydo to prophets, Dora. They kill them. They stamp out the light because they'd rather live in the dark."

"Then don't go!" she pleaded. "Remus, you've said it yourself, there's no chance! Why, _why_ go out and try to change people who don't want to be changed!"

The man let out a burst of angry laughter, startling her. "Because, Dora," the werewolf said with a sour smile, "Because if I don't, their blood will be on my hands. The blood they lose… and the blood they spill."

She stared at him, incomprehension plain on her heart-shaped face, and the werewolf swallowed hard, looking away. She didn't understand. She couldn't understand, he thought bitterly, none of them could, except maybe McGonagall, and he'd just burnt that bridge to cinders. A thick nausea was rising in his throat; he hadn't felt so alone since Sirius died…

But then the gentle brush of cold fingers against his calloused palm drew his attention, and he looked over, startled. Dora's expression was very sad and not a little curious, and he had the strange sense that somehow, she understood even that which she did not know. The man let out a low sigh and curled his hand around hers, and together they watched the rain sweep in over the Scottish moors.

* * *

A storm was brewing over Llanbedrog when Remus returned to the old cottage late that night; winds whipped furiously through his graying hair and pulled at his weathered cloak, nearly tearing the old door off its hinges as he opened it. He turned back for just a moment and watched as the broiling clouds moved in from over the sea, eyes finding the tiny white steeple of the church. Twenty years… did anything really change?

Yes, Remus reflected bitterly as he shut the door behind him, yes, it did. Things did change, and often not for the better.

He could feel one of his depressive episodes coming on and, in an attempt to stave it off (musing all the while on the fascinating nature of despair, so poisonous and yet somehow so alluring) he lit the fire in the hearth and put the kettle on the stove, before taking it off again and pulling a large bottle of whiskey out from under the kitchen sink, hating himself all the while. He didn't bother with the glass, but instead took a swig and set it down on the table. It took a lot to get a werewolf drunk, but he was willing to make the effort tonight.

Greyback. Remus felt a primal growl build in his throat and didn't suppress it. Never had a name inspired more hatred in him– nor more fear. Not even when he'd thought Sirius had betrayed them, not even now that the rat was still running free while his best friend was beyond the veil, no one had ever challenged Remus's Christian heart as did the brute who had broken him. And he was broken, Remus thought with bitter savagery, taking another burning gulp of whiskey. He was broken, sometimes he thought beyond repair. An image flashed through his mind, of moonlight and shadows and golden eyes in the darkness, and he drove it away with a third spluttered draught.

Greyback. What was Dumbledore thinking? What was _he_ thinking? Any other werewolf, literally anyone else, would be a better choice than him, the victim of prophecy, the _evil repaid,_ the Isaac sacrificed upon his father's altar.

Remus shook his head and tilted the bottle back; he was confusing his metaphors. Fenrir Greyback wasn't a god, whatever name he might give himself. No, that brute was second only to the devil. Besides, it didn't matter. He'd forgiven his father years ago, hadn't he?

Something about being drunk always made him uncertain of that.

He should stop now, Remus thought dryly, swallowing the burning amber liquid and feeling the pleasant heat in his stomach begin to churn like acid. He should give up, go to bed, get some sleep… But of course, he wouldn't sleep. It was keep drinking or start crying. And he would do anything to prevent the latter. He'd a thousand times rather be a raging drunk than a sobbing victim.

How, _how_ did Dumbledore expect him to do this? To convince the wild werewolves to join the light, to lead the packs away from Greyback– Greyback, the most fearsome werewolf to wander the moors of Wales since Melion himself? The man against whose very memory Remus still flinched in fear? What was _he_ supposed to do, a poor, depressed middle-aged man, against the likes of such a beast? How was _he_ supposed to be some sort of– of modern-day prophet, when he couldn't even get up his own hopes? What the blazes was he even supposed to _tell_ them? _Leave your alpha and join the fight against Voldemort! Sure, wizards will still curse you and spit on you and treat you as less than human, but trust me, it's the right thing to do!_ Yeah, that'd go over well. Some spokesman he was. And that was considering he actually made it past his first little encounter with the brute who'd turned him into a neurotic mess in the first place.

He couldn't do this. He'd have to refuse. It wasn't that he was afraid of dying, not really. His fear of death had been successively numbed through the years of transformations, of war, of loneliness and depression. A choked laugh escaped him, making him choke on the swill; depression? Fuck, if he weren't a half-decent Presbyterian with a half-hope in eternal justice, _if the Everlasting had not fixed His cannon against self-slaughter–_

He cut off that thought sharply out of habit, and then coaxed it back, tasting the bittersweet sting of despair on his tongue, like chocolate without sugar. Chocolate… his mother had made cocoa there, at that very stove, all those years ago…

His thoughts immediately turned guilty at having entertained such thoughts. _Oh, Mam, I'm so sorry._ What right did he have to end it all? What right did he have to take his life along with hers? He was an ungrateful son, the son of the woman who had cared for him for so long without fear when by all rights she should have thrown him to the wolves, the woman who had died so that he might live…

He finished off the bottle in several long, successive gulps, amber spilling down his shirt and staining it. Remus could feel his head swimming, his stomach burned; he hadn't drunk like this in ages. He set the bottle down harder than he meant to and the glass smashed against the table, cutting his hand, the scent of blood filling the air. He cursed, and then cursed again, and then bellowed and roared and at last, when every chair had been overturned and the table lay in splinters on the ground, he collapsed onto the threadbare couch and put his head in his hands. His plan to stave off tears had failed, and he sobbed with desolate abandon, at last giving in to the blackness that had crawled out of his heart and was descending upon him. He couldn't do it. He was a coward, a fool, a victim, a monster…

 _Monster…_

A thump. A noise, from the locked room. Remus looked at the door, startled. An intruder?

He drew his wand but didn't approach the door. Some strange fear was growing in his stomach; every instinct told him to stay away from that room.

And then the screams began.

 _"TADA!"_

The man started violently; the cry tore deep inside him, through his shoulder, to his heart. Again the cry came: _"TADA!_ _Nghynorthwyo! NGHYNORTHWYO!"_

He rushed forward as if the devil were on his heels, but no matter how hard he tried it seemed that the room drew further and further away. The screams were desperate; begging for help, begging it to stop, to stop, _peidiwch, peidiwch, tada-!_

 _The door crashed open._

 _The boy screamed._

 _A roar broke into the bloody night, and a howl of pain as a silver arrow met its mark, and then the beast was gone but everything burned, it burned, and mama was screaming and tada was leaving, please, tada, TADA–!_

BANG!

Remus shot straight up, chest heaving, pulse racing out of control. He looked around wildly, fumbling for his wand, but he could see nothing, no beast, no monster–

 _Bang!_ The sound came again, softer this time, and he realized that a cold, rain-laced wind was swirling around the small living space of the cottage. His eyes fell upon the window above the sink and he realized that the storm had somehow blown the window open.

Remus stood uncertainly to his feet and found that he wasn't at all unsteady; in fact he felt more sober and alert than he had before– before when? What time was it? He checked his watch; it was just after midnight. He looked around the destroyed cottage and sighed. This was why he didn't get drunk.

Remus raised his wand and was just about to start setting the room back in order when something caught his attention. Any spare napkins or pieces of paper he'd had laying out had been blown wildly about the room by the wind, littering the floor with debris... but in the center of the chaos lay one small book.

It was his mother's– he had never thought to call it his own, though it had been her parting gift to him on her deathbed– old pocket Bible, bound in old soft leather and lying open as neatly as if someone had been reading it and set it down just minutes earlier. It mus thave been sitting on the table when he overturned it, Remus realized. He walked forward and crouched down; just as he was about to pick it up a particularly strong gust came through the open window, rifling the pages and startling him. When they settled, his eyes landed upon one verse:

 _Therefore said he unto them, the harvest truly is great, but the labourers are few: pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he would send forth labourers into his harvest._

 _Go your ways: behold, I send you forth as lambs among wolves._

* * *

The pounding on the door grew more insistant with every second as Minerva McGonagall tied her dressing robe and pushed her graying hair out of her face. "Hold on, hold on, I'm coming!" she grumbled, making her way through the cold apartment. _One in the blasted morning, Merlin, this had better be important..._

She pulled open the door and stopped short. Remus Lupin looked back, messy-haired and clothes disheveled, face flushed and reeking of whiskey. She was about to ask him if he was drunk, but when an open book was pushed into her hands she was forced to look down, surprised.

It was a Bible– Hope Lupin's Bible, she realized, though she'd seen it only a few times in her life. Her eyes scanned the familiar verses, well-known since the earliest days of her childhood, and when she looked up in stunned understanding, she saw that the young man's eyes were burning like the fire that consumed the priests of Ba'al.

"I'll do it, Professor. I'll do it."

* * *

 **A/N: Whew! Talk about a long wait! At least the chapter was long though, eh? Please review!**

*Bible verse came from Matthew 10:16 in the KJV.

*Translations of the Welsh (note: I am not a native speaker of the language; the phrases above were an approximate translation due to the notoriously fallible Google Translate, so I offer my sincerest apologies):

 _"I'm sorry about that; you know how it is…"_

 _"I understand; it's business. I can't imagine I'm your most popular customer."_

 _"You should have heard the talk around here a few years ago. I reckon half of them were near ready to take the rifles off the walls and attack the cottage!"_

 _"With my grandfather's name as their rallying cry, no doubt."_

 _"Well, all that rubbish aside, what can I get you?"_

 _"Mm. Fish and chips, and a pint of stout."_

(To Tonks.) _"And for you?"_


End file.
